Extreme poetry: “All is going to Hell — After the Rapture”.

(PAINTING AND PHOTOGRAPHY BY ADAM DONALDSON POWELL)

AFTER THE RAPTURE.

Ascension, oil on canvas, 30 x 30 cm.
Ascension, oil on canvas, 30 x 30 cm.

ASCENSION.

In an instant,

the orgasmic tingling

of the Great Compassion

transmutes physicality

into crystalline Light,

thus releasing the

new-found frequency

to find completion in

the vortex of

universal vibration.

And meanwhile,

a gentle rain

falls upon the Earth;

cultivating awe and

aspiration in those

left behind.

keys

THE FUTURE IS NOW.

Just for a moment

I surreptitiously

Slip through the

Portals of your

Watery eyes and

Catch a glimpse of

The celestial encoding

Of the Matrix.

I wander

Into the light of

Eternal memory

Reverberating

The sacred mantra

Deafening my disillusionment

With the illusion of the

Labyrinth’s dead ends

And in my stupor I

Recall the last words

Of a forgotten incarnation,

Wilting as a black rose

Under a peach-coloured

Sky – cloudless and still –

A mere heartbeat

Beyond time;

Echoing its low-grade pulse

As I frantically

Run up and down the

Alleys of La Recoleta

Trying to dodge the raindrops.

And just as you speak

I find myself on my hands and

Knees facing my epitaph:

“Posterus est iam”,

And quite uncontrollably, a single

Teardrop overflows the

Pocket of my left eye as I

Recapture our own

Generic moment in

Shared space and time.

Ascension.
Ascension.

PAVANE: un poème pour la fin des temps.

There is nothing more beautiful

And yet so sorrowful as

A man’s tears over humiliation

And loss, cradled in the bosom

Of a woman.

Uncontrollable sobbing —

A torrential rainfall

Recalling a wilderness

Landscape unashamedly seeking

Refuge from gushing winds

And rapids, thunder and lightning

Against a purple, grey and orange

Sky – in betrayal of a lifetime of

Emotional constipation and

Affections of masculinity.

A once-graceful sylph –

Now stumbling and gasping

For breath – beckons and

Invites him to join her in

A clumsy pavane, until

The quintessential mother

Archetype manages to

Rock the fallen one back

From the crevice of

Momentary indiscretion

At the end of time,

And whimpers accede to

Retrieval of pride and

Passion in the guise of

Poetic procreation.

Graffiti at train station in Oslo.
Graffiti at train station in Oslo.

AFTER THE RAPTURE.

Spent, sweaty and out-of-breath

We lie back and

Light a single cigarette

To be shared in symbolic

Celebration after an intergalactic

Battle between brazen faith and

Foolish adventure.

My tattered wings clumsily

Tucked in between my back

And the thin Styrofoam mattress;

Your head buried in my chest

And your matted hair still wet from

Our midnight dip in the Styx.

Who would have guessed that

The heaven of our making

Would be like this? .. so

Characterized by the mundane,

With intermittent interruptions

Of surrealistic struggles for

Survival: win or lose .. all

Or nothing .. one day at a time.

As the moon eclipses, the last

Sight I see before I drift off

Is the withered bonsai in the

Opening of our pre-war dwelling.

A reminder of a time when

We still dared to sleep soundly;

Carefully wrapped in unencumbered

Dreams in the style of our ancestors.

foggyday

THE FOURTH HORSEMAN.

I have come to accept

the threat of the first horseman,

on his mighty white steed –

causing in me a seemingly

everlasting sense of suspicion,

caution and readiness, and

I have sadly learned to expect

the relentless ravages of

war and emotional famine

brought on by the

rider on the red horse,

and the pestilence in the

saddlebags of the black steed.

Ironically, I mostly dread

the thieving fourth horseman

who arrives each dawn

on his pale mare and

reclaims from my broken dreams

the yet unlived memories of our love.

Stop the genocide!
Stop the genocide!

THE TRIBULATION.

The globalisation of

indiscriminate violence

is multiplied to

the power of the sixes,

and the Antichrist

smiles broadly at

the cancerous spreading

of fear and perdition –

rationalized by armies of

self-proclaimed truth.

But the greatest

threat from these

soldiers of hatred

is perhaps echoed in

the pestilent apathy

which is rampant

amongst those

elements of world populace

not directly affected by

the ravages of persecution,

and whose messengers

of love and compassion

no longer dare to

speak out – for

fear of getting caught

in the crossfire.

ARMAGEDDON.

Barking dogs

have long since

gone hoarse;

the incessant

b-flat octaves

tolling from

cathedrals,

cemeteries and

city halls are the

only musical

accompaniment to

the wailing

and mutterings

of the insane and

the shell-shocked.

Black-robed and

barefoot Nazarenos

trudge aimlessly

up and down

the flooding boulevards,

streets and alleyways

in this year-long

Semana Santa;

a macabre procession

matched in passion

only by the

mega tsunamis and

super volcanic

eruptions cataclysmically

creating myriads of

Devil’s Throats

as the reddish-brown

water whirlpools

about the rubble of

once looming

skyscrapers.

Resolutely ..

I rock myself

to inner drunkenness,

quietly humming

Ravel’s Pavane pour

une Infante Défunte.

going to hell

REQUIEM.

Once fresh air is

Now pungent

With the odor of

Desiccated seashells

Picked nearly clean

By eloquent predators

And the opportunists

Who are never

Far behind them.

Perched swallows

Look on with fear

And disbelief at

Seagulls gliding, then

Careening too far

Inland, their hysterical

Laughter a parody of

A sonata appassionata

Against a now-barren

Landscape devoid of

Romanticism and

Common decency.

If one listens closely

One can hear a requiem

For a milder Age that ended

All-too-abruptly – it is

A solemn dirge describing

The endless journey of

Displaced souls desperately

Trying not to see or hear

While carefully guarding

Their most prized possession:

Hope that there is more

Meaning to be grasped

For he who holds out

Beyond the bitter end.

REDEEMING SAVIOUR.

Mesmerized by the

Anointing smile of

Christ the Redeemer

I see a muse

Slow-dancing

With an angel

To the chanting

Of a monk’s choir;

A solemn moment’s

Reprieve from a

Raging sea of cynicism.

And I cling tightly to my

Dream-state while

Tears of joy and recognition

Rock me lovingly back to

True consciousness;

Reminiscent of

Life between lives –

A moment of bliss

Recaptured.

Arbor.
Arbor.

GLORIA IN EXCÉLSIS DEO.

Gloria in excélsis Deo!

Alleluia .. Alleluia ..

Although our backs are broken,

And our wings are tattered;

Our hearts and souls

Will forever sing your praises.

There is only one God,

But the ways to You are many.

Alleluia .. Alleluia ..

Alleluia .. Alleluia ..

“AFTER THE RAPTURE” IS PART OF MY BOOK ENTITLED “RAPTURE: ENDINGS OF SPACE AND TIME”. ORDER “RAPTURE: ENDINGS OF SPACE AND TIME” AND SEVERAL OF MY OTHER BOOKS FROM CYBERWIT.NET OR AMAZON.COM

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